“So, you want me to lie to your parents?” She crossed her arms and assumed the stubborn stance that had become familiar to him.
His response was simple and immediate. “Yes,” he said, then stared at her stone face, waiting for the next expression of outrage. But she surprised him.
“Okay, but it’s on you to smooth things over when all is resolved. I don’t think they’ve totally made up their minds about me yet. This could tip the scales in the wrong direction.”
“Promise. I’ll say I twisted your arm—not physically, but verbally.”
Ana sounded very emphatic as she replied, “I suppose that if you promise only to talk to them and definitely not go out on your own—for any reason—I’ll stay here and do your bidding. And don’t forget to get your passport from the concierge.”
Ben shrugged his shoulders and held out his hands in supplication. “What could I possibly do? On my own I’d have no idea where to start.”
The expression on Ana’s face told Ben he had asked the right question. Yet if given the slightest opportunity to take action, he wouldn’t hesitate to ignore his promise. Hopefully that decision would be something else he could smooth over. Even though he was unsure as to how it would be received, he needed a kiss from Ana to send him on his way. He was apprehensive about what was going on back in the UK and about how the outcome could affect the women. The obstacles before him seemed insurmountable, but he had to do something. If the police balked at getting involved, he would just have to think of another way. These thoughts flashed through his mind as he approached Ana and put his arms around her.
“A kiss for luck?” he asked.
“Two kisses,” she said. “One for luck and one for using good sense.”
Leaving Ana’s presence had become more and more difficult as their days together passed. He would take comfort in the fact that she wouldn’t be directly involved in anything to come. Ben smiled as she stood on tiptoes to reach his lips. Two sweet kisses later they embraced, and then he was out the door. Riding down in the elevator he decided to ask the concierge about the location of the nearest municipal police station. Coming out of the elevator he looked around the lobby for a staff member. He spotted the concierge seated behind an ornate desk, talking on the phone. The young woman ended the call when she saw Ben approaching and flashed an alluring smile as she rose to extend her hand.
“How can I be of service?” she asked in a lilting Spanish accent, taking Ben’s hand for what seemed to him a little longer than necessary.
“I need to find out where the closest police station is located.”
“Have you had a problem? Has something happened?” she asked, her expression changing from coy to apprehensive.
“No, no.” Ben had to think fast—give her a reason why he would be headed to a police station. He said the first thing that came to mind. “I’m a writer. Part of the reason I’m here in Pamplona is to do some research for my current book. It’s a crime story and centers in northern Spain.”
The young woman became excitable and asked what books he had written, were they available translated to Spanish, and what was his name again? He politely told her that he didn’t have time to talk, but that if she would leave her name at the desk he would try to remember to send her a copy of his latest book when he returned home. This more than satisfied her, enabling him to steer the conversation back to the question at hand. Fortunately there was a station, a Comisaria, right in the plaza where the hotel was located. She walked outside with him and pointed across to its location. He thanked her and began walking briskly toward the building.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In a few hours the sun would set on another day of Annunciata Domingo’s rigid and exhausting life. She left the tall building through the employee entrance and started down the sidewalk to her bus stop. People seemed to race past her, her own pace being much slower than it had been early that morning. This was the only job that brought her to an affluent part of town. Two bus transfers were necessary to bring her close to the building where she cleaned a fancy apartment every week. She had never seen the people who lived there, but referred to them as los ricos, the rich ones. The man at the security desk would give her the key, and it usually seemed as though no one had set foot inside from week to week. There was little to do and she had finished in time to have part of the afternoon to herself. The agency had found her that job, but she found others on her own—as many as possible—regardless of how distasteful by comparison.
She reached the bus bench and sat down to wait. Usually she enjoyed the waiting. It was her small break before arriving home to different yet still tiring demands. But for at least two weeks every year the bustle of the city center teemed with crowds and extra noise. The constant movement of vehicles, citizens and tourists blurred her vision. She closed her eyes and tried to quiet the thoughts that had plagued her since she cleaned the derelict house and found the bag. The hard-faced man had given her a bad feeling from the first time she laid eyes on him. But who was she to turn down work? Annunciata was still frightened by what she had seen. Yet she was more frightened about what might have happened if she had been discovered nosing through his things. Suspicious things.
The screeching tires and blaring horns of a near miss between two cars startled her. She opened her eyes and focused ahead on the Plaza del Castillo across the street from where she was sitting. Suddenly, and for the first time in years, she decided not to go straight home. She got up, held her purse tightly and walked to the corner. She waited for the green light, crossed quickly then slowed her steps as she entered the beautiful plaza. The street noise seemed to fade as she walked toward the long benches, colorful flowers and patches of green grass. A breeze, not more than a whisper, rustled the leaves of a nearby tree that cast a bit of shade on the bench she had chosen for her task. She realized that she must pray. Faith would bring the answer to her dilemma of conscience.
She folded her hands in supplication and sat quietly, again with eyes closed, her face turned skyward. What had been a soft breeze grew into gusts of warm wind that gently interrupted her meditative state. Calmness washed over her as she stood to leave. There was a newly found confidence to do what she knew was right. She called her children from the public phone at the edge of the plaza, telling them she would be late and not to worry. Annunciata was now free to take action.
Noticing the Comisaria just across the plaza from where she stood, she took it as a sign and managed to muster enough energy for a fast walk to the entrance. She approached the reception desk rather meekly and waited for the young officer on duty to finish speaking with a woman who was wiping away tears. In a few moments the woman turned, pulled her sweater tightly around her, and walked to the waiting area.
Annunciata was flushed with adrenaline when it was her turn to speak. The officer was respectful and patient, listening to her search for the right words. Giving more information than was necessary—from the man’s offer of a job to the terrible condition of the house—she finally came around to the subject of the closet and what she had seen in the duffle bag. After scolding her for having snooped into the man’s belongings, the officer told her that having such things did not break any laws and there was nothing the police could do. Refusing to be placated she pointed out the presence of the two old mattresses, the window that was nailed shut, and her strong ‘feeling’ that something sinister was going to happen or had already happened in that house. Annunciata admitted to him she felt guilty for having waited so long to come forward, but that she had been frightened of the man. The officer wanted to know why the man frightened her. Had she been threatened? She told him she had not been threatened, but his demeanor was threatening. She described him: the shaved tattooed head, the bulkiness of his frame, the mean eyes. And as she finished, her body shuddered at the memory of her encounter with him.
The officer turned away from her to answer the phone, but she remained standing at the counter with a dejected look on her face. She was no
t satisfied with how the information she had offered was being handled and was quite sure it was because she was a woman. She believed some men still felt that women were prone to flights of fancy, being overly emotional, and seeing boogie men where there were none. Yet she was a sensible woman, independent, and remained adamant about the danger she perceived.
As he hung up the phone the officer saw that Annunciata was still standing at the counter. He could see that she would not be easily dissuaded. Perhaps if he would let her sit down and talk to one of the other officers at his desk, she could be appeased. When he began to walk toward where she was standing, she was staring at him. He proposed the offer for her to talk to another officer, but when he looked through the glass partition into the squad room he could see that all the men were busy either with other people or paperwork. Just as he was asking her if she would be willing to wait, a man came bursting through the main doors and all but flew toward the desk. The man stopped there, leaned forward with both hands on the wooden edge and began to speak.
“Por favor… ¿Alguien hable inglés?” Ben asked, sounding breathless.
“Si, yo hablo un poco— pero no muy bien,” the officer answered.
“I don’t care. A little is better than nothing.”
“¿Cuál es el problema, señor?” He paused before trying his English. “The problem?”
“My sister and a friend have been kidnapped. We have every reason to believe that they’re being held here in Pamplona.” He paused, waiting for a response that didn’t come then continued. “We know they boarded the flight from London, but after they landed at the Hondarribia airport, there was no trace of them.”
“Que?No entiendo,” the officer said, shaking his head in frustration.
“Oh great,” Ben said under his breath. “Okay… let me try to make you understand.” He paused while summoning a few words from memory that he hoped would get his message across simply. “Mi hermana y un amiga …” The officer nodded that he understood, and then with his brain spinning, Ben fumbled for the most important word. Suddenly he spit it out. “Secuestrados!”
Ben stared at the officer and waited for a response. The young man’s expression was blank and vacant. Clearly he had no idea what to do with a tourist making far-fetched accusations of kidnapping. Ben broke the uncomfortable silence. “Let me speak to your superior … el Jefe … pronto por favor!”
Annunciata had backed away from the counter, but easily heard the exchange. Under her breath she repeated, “¿Secuestrados?”
The officer became flustered and self-consciously ran the fingers of one hand through his thick dark hair. He inhaled and exhaled deeply, turning slightly to pick up an intercom handset. Ben assumed he was calling for backup—someone better than he was at placating tourists—and he maintained his stance, leaning on the counter, seeming ready to spring into action, yet having no idea as to what kind of action to take. Annunciata inched closer to Ben. She had understood enough of what he had said in Spanish to know why he needed help, and she could see—almost feel—his desperation. The English language was foreign to her but she knew that somehow, she must communicate with him. She believed that her prayers had brought her to this place, at this particular time, and she found herself drawn to the distressed man beside her.
Through the glass partition separating the squad room from the public area, both she and Ben could see the animated conversation between the young man and an officer of higher rank who had come out of a separate office. Eventually the officer, dressed in plain clothes, went back into the office, took his jacket from the back of the desk chair and put it on. He walked toward the door of the squad room, the young man following close behind. Ben backed away from the counter and stood straight, his body stiffened by how badly he needed to be taken seriously and get his message across.
The superior officer came through to the public area and approached Ben. The man was tall and slender, with a classic Spanish profile and abundant wavy hair streaked with gray. In heavily accented English he said, “Señor, I am Gonzalo Macias, Inspektorea Macias. I understand that you have some concerns about relatives who are visiting Pamplona?”
Ben thanked the Inspector for his assistance and proceeded to explain what little he knew about the situation with his sister and ex-wife. He tried to explain the significance of the email they had received about the women’s location and insisted that law enforcement should become involved. Ben knew very little about the specifics of the collaboration between Scotland Yard and Interpol with regard to apprehending the thieves ‘in the act.’ And besides, he wasn’t free to speak about any of it. All he could safely reveal was that they were kidnapped as a way to facilitate someone’s help with a robbery in England, and that an attempt had also been made to abduct him in London.
Annunciata listened carefully, although she didn’t understand what was being said and was limited to observing body language. She recognized the hand gestures made by Inspector Macias in an effort to make Ben to speak more slowly, although he continued to use adamant hand gestures of his own in trying to make himself understood. Finally the words stopped, and both men were quiet. The Inspector was the first to speak.
“Señor, I see that you are much distressed.” He paused and looked squarely at Ben, who heaved a sigh then waited for what he hoped would be a positive result to his plea. The Inspector continued, his tone apologetic. “These ideas you have are vague. Pamplona is not a small town. How could we possibly search for two women who are … oculto … how do you say?” He thought for a moment then said, “They are hidden—hidden in a city that is overrun with tourists, pickpockets and other opportunists.”
“Your English is very good, but my Spanish is not,” Ben replied, “And I understand that this is law enforcement’s busiest time of year, but the safety of guests in your city must be a priority. The women arrived here as tourists, excited at the prospect of taking part in the festival. They disappeared from the airport—never checked in at their hotel. Surely this is cause for you to be concerned as well.”
Inspector Macias answered in a tone both polite and somewhat brusque. “Our concern doesn’t mean that we can be of help to you.” Ben looked at the floor and shook his head in frustration. The Inspector continued, “There is nothing to go on—not a clue. You would have to bring me something … somewhere to start.”
“Your detectives – sorry, I mean your deputy inspectors—could start at the airport, see if anyone remembers them, or saw them get into a vehicle. Maybe someone in the terminal saw the women being met by someone. They are both beautiful women. People notice beautiful women.”
“That is true, but every Comisaria in the city is stretched to the limit due to the festival. Every year we are forced to enlist the help of the Guardia Civil. I’m sorry, Señor, I can’t spare the manpower. Perhaps you could enlist the help of the policía in San Sebastián. They are closer to the airport. Perhaps an officer could accompany you to make inquiries there.”
Ben shook his head no and said, “There isn’t time for that. Their lives are in danger right now!” He waited, hoping the Inspector would reconsider, but the man just stood before him with his arms folded across his chest. Ben was just as impatient as the Inspector, but wouldn’t give up. “I can’t tell you how, but I know they’re in the city. Remember the email confirming that?”
“Do you have a copy of this email?” Ben’s shook his head no. He stepped sideways to lean against the counter, no doubt finding that the whole exchange was going nowhere. “You have no way of knowing if it was legitimate information. I have had experience with investigations where very creative efforts were made to … how do you say? … ‘Throw us off the scent.’”
Ben continued to be unflappable. “But it’s all I have, and something has to be done—now!”
“I would urge you to be careful. You are in a strange city, which is, unfortunately, overrun with people of all types. You could easily get yourself into trouble.” Ben shifted from one foot to the other, impat
ient to take some kind of action yet reluctant to offend Inspector Macias by cutting short what he was trying to say. The Inspector sensed this and brought his comments to a close. “As I said, there’s nothing I can do for you at this time, with what little information you have to offer. If you learn more, if you get specific information, return to the Comisaria and have me paged. If that happens, I will do my best to sort this out.” He paused then added, “And if you come upon some immediate information about the women—something dangerous—you can always dial our emergency number—zero nine two.”
Ben realized that there was no point in continuing to pursue police assistance. He thanked the Inspector, who excused himself and returned to the area behind the glass partition. Ben watched him go into his office and shut the door. Feeling tired and discouraged, he sat down in one of the chairs that lined one wall. Elbows on knees, he put his head in his hands and was still. After a minute or so he raised his head, rubbed his eyes, ran his fingers through his hair, then slumped down in the seat. With his eyes covered he hadn’t seen Annunciata walk over and sit down beside him. He glanced sideways and saw her, wondering why she was looking at him. The first thing he noticed was that the woman’s eyes were kind, but also that her face showed fatigue.
She inched forward in the chair, put her belongings on the floor between her feet, then folded her hands in her lap and began to speak. “Señor, no hablo Ingles, pero he oído que hablan español. ¿Sé que el miedo a dos mujeres?
Ben understood that she had overheard him speaking Spanish to the young officer and also knew what he had said. He couldn’t imagine why she was questioning him. After all, what could she know? He decided to indulge her. There was something in her expression—the haunted look in her eyes. It moved him. Knowing the limitations of his ability to speak the language, he figured he wouldn’t understand much.
Good Deed Bad Deed : A Novel Mystery Page 25
